Human After All
by ohmycroft
Summary: Mycroft and Sherlock were never close. But when doubts sink into Sherlock's thought and betrayal seems more logical than ever, will their relationship be forever broken?
1. Chapter 1

Mycroft Holmes walked quickly to his office. Anthea texted him earlier, saying he mustn't come back to his office, that he must go someplace else, where he won't be found. So, obviously, he headed to his office as fast as possible. He couldn't allow others to distract him from his work, and if Anthea was right and things are as serious as they were claimed to be, escaping would only show weakness, and that was something Mycroft Holmes could not bear with. As he walked in the corridor and got closer to his office, he could hear voices. Most of them of men, but also one of a woman. Something about them was familiar, as if he had ever heard them before, but not directly. One manly voice spoke more loudly than the rest, and as it was spoken the rest were quiet. This voice was more familiar than the rest of them. Just as he managed to identify the voice, he opened the door. It was the voice of DI Greg Lestrade. He opened the door to find his office filled with police officers, ones he had seen his brother with before. Just by the door stood DI Lestrade, his hair gray as he had remembered it from the times he had seen him with Sherlock. His expression was serious, but he could not hide the nervousness he was feeling. "Explain." he asked the DI coldly, ignoring the rest of the people there. The crowd, including Lestrade, seemed frozen for a moment, as if they had not expected a situation like this. But their hesitation lasts only a moment, and then everyone started moving quickly towards him. Before he managed to understand what was going on, the DI announced: "Mycroft Holmes, you are arrested for the murder of Anthea Jenkins." Mycroft was too stunned to resist being put in handcuffs and led into a police car. How was this possible? Anthea had texted him less than an hour ago, alive. How could she be dead? And more importantly – why did they think he was responsible for her death? Only when he was led to the nearest prison, he realized what was happening. "What are you doing?" No answer. Everyone around him ignored him, and continued pulling him closer and closer to a private cell. "You can't do this. I've just been arrested – you can't treat me like a convicted criminal!" "We got special orders to do so." An answer came at last from the DI. "There are enough evidences in order to convict you, which mean that not only you are fired from your position, but you also lose your rights. Your actions are considered as betrayal, which gives us the right to imprison you just for that." "I can't be fired!" he exclaimed in shock. He basically runs the British government – he has no replacement. The officers released him from the handcuffs and shoved him inside the cell. The cell was relatively bigger than others, with a rickety bed and a wooden bench. There was a small coffee table in front of the bench, and a small bookcase against the wall. There were orange clothes on the bench – the clothes of a prisoner. None of this made sense – how could he be treated this way before he was even convicted? "Put on the uniform." The cell's door was closed and locked, and the officers started heading away from him. "Wait!" he cried desperately. Lestrade turned. There was such a look of disgust on his face, one he had never seen before. Mycroft cleared his throat. He couldn't afford himself to sound weak. "I believe I deserve a phone call." Lestrade stared at him for a moment, as if considering the idea of letting him call someone. After a moment, he sighed. "Who would you like to call?" Mycroft hesitated for a moment. He had only one option – the only person who could help him was the same person he wanted least to come. "Sherlock Holmes." 


	2. Chapter 2

The world's only consulting detective walked in the corridors of a prison, alongside with his blogger friend. He looked around him in disgust. He had received a phone call saying that his brother had asked him to come, in order to help him solve a problem. Usually, Sherlock would have ignored such a request. But Mycroft never asked for Sherlock's help. He demanded it, or he asked for it indirectly. This request was rather peculiar, which was why Sherlock Holmes was walking towards the cell he was asked to come to. It was at the end of the corridor, but it was different than the rest of them larger than the rest, and isolated from them as well. A man in prison uniform sat on a wooden bench and read a boring-looking book. He lifted his gaze from the book as the men entered.

John frowned immediately. Sherlock stared at his brother for a moment, and then let out a loud gloating laughter.

"Yes, very funny. Now would you calm down and behave like a grownup?" the older brother said in irritation.

"You do not look well in orange." the younger said, still laughing.

"Thank you for that important information." the older said sarcastically.

John scanned his best friend's older brother. He looked strong and confident, even like this, but something about him was different. He didn't seem immune anymore, and his blank eyes were trying to conceal an emotion john had never seen in this man's expression he was used to it.

"Why would you kill her?" the detective asked in confusion. His brother may not like working with people, but Anthea had been his assistant for such a long time this time he wanted to make it different he's your brother!" John burst, but Sherlock didn't care. He had conditions.

Mycroft walked closer to his brother, until he was standing right in front of him, as close as the bars allow him to. He knew the detective wouldn't help him unless he'll make him want to help him. He didn't actually want him to say 'please'. He wanted him to show how desperate he really was.

And he was desperate.

"Please, help me," he said, allowing his eyes and tone to expose his feelings, "Sherlock."

John was astonished he had put on the emotionless mask again, not revealing his feelings and thoughts.

Sherlock Holmes headed to the door without saying a word, and his friend followed. Just as he closed the door behind them, he could hear Mycroft say: "Thank you."


	3. Chapter 3

Greg Lestrade started up his car. It's been a busy and tiring day, and all he wanted to do was to have lunch and forget about everything that had happened. He turned on the radio, and one of his favourite songs was played. He started humming to the tune. "Never liked that song." a deep manly voice said, and Greg jumped. He turned around, and saw Sherlock Holmes and John Watson sit at the back of his car, as if their presence is natural. "Eyes on the road." The taller one said with an arrogant grin, clearly satisfied by the way Lestrade reacted to them. Greg turned back to look at the road, but kept glancing at the front mirror in order to look at them. There went his plans to forget about work. "What are you doing here?!" "I want you to show us Anthea Jenkins's body." Greg snorted. Even the mighty Sherlock Holmes was predictable sometimes. "Of course you do. Brotherhood. But why would I help you?" "Because I'm cleverer than whoever's threatening you." "I'm not being threatened." he said dismissively. "Don't try to fool me, Gavin." "It's Greg!" "Can you just take us to the body and end this childish discussion?" the doctor interrupted. Greg sighed. Of course he will. As if he had a choice. 


	4. Chapter 4

When they entered St. Barts hospital, Molly Hooper was already waiting for them. Lestrade called her and asked her to come. He said Sherlock's involved, so she came. Three men entered the room – a DI, a detective and a doctor. She smiled shyly. The doctor smiled faintly back, but the detective remained serious. She uncovered the dead body, revealing a tanned woman with a single wound on her forehead, caused by a gun. "The cause of death is pretty transparent." "Don't jump to conclusions too quickly, John. A gunshot is a possibility, but not necessarily the truth." "I've checked her blood for toxins, alcohol and drugs and found nothing. The gunshot is the cause of death." the woman said. The doctor chuckled, glad he was right this time. The detective looked at him seriously, and the smile vanished from his face. "What made you think it was Mycroft?" the detective asked the DI. "His hair was found on the body, it was his gun that fired the shot, and we found gunpowder on his clothes." "That is very persuading." John muttered. "Not at all. Someone could have easily taken some of my brother's clothes and steal his gun, use them to kill her, plant evidences on her and escape." "Oh, don't be ridiculous. You're bribed because he's your brother." "What was his motive?" The DI hesitated, surprised by the question. "Excuse me?" "What was his motive? You seem so certain that it was my brother who did this. If you're so convinced it was him, tell me what his motive was." "We don't know yet," Lestrade started. "Just like I thought. So you basically have no –" the detective interrupted. "But he's going to tell us." He continued. Both men were baffled. What is he talking about? "What do you mean, 'he's going to tell us'?" the doctor asked. "We have a reason to believe he's a murderer, so he can't walk away freely. And we know interrogating regularly won't work – he can beat any lie detector. So we're going to isolate him and create the perfect circumstances that'll make him tell us everything he knows." The way Lestrade spoke was strange to Sherlock. His expression was different, darker than usual, and there was something odd about his tone. He sounded almost… cruel. Sherlock's expression changed into a comprehending one. "You're going to torture him." "That's not what I said." "But it's what you meant." Greg kept his mouth shut, not saying a word. "Why?" Sherlock moved closer to the DI. "Why are behaving this way? Whoever's blackmailing you must've given you an excuse. I won't force you to tell me who is it, but I will make you tell me the excuse he provided you." "Why?" he asked quietly. "Because as soon as I prove the excuse wrong, my brother will be a free man." Lestrade took in a deep breath. "We assume that Ms. Jenkins discovered something your brother wanted to keep as a secret. He killed her to keep her quiet." "And what is that secret?" He hesitated. "Well?" Sherlock urged him. "Mycroft Holmes helped James Moriarty break into Pentonville Prison and the Bank of England and steal the Crown Jewels." "What?! That's insane!" John exclaimed. "It's the truth." Greg answered. "Sherlock, tell him that's crazy." The detective was paralyzed. "Sherlock?" What John didn't notice was that his friend was no longer there – he was deep inside his mind palace. 


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock was sitting in the seat of the judge, the wooden hammer in front of him. Mycroft and Lestrade were standing in front of him, Mycroft to the right and Lestrade to the left. He was the judge, and he had to decide who's guilty and who's innocent. "For God's sake, Sherlock! I'm your brother! I told you it wasn't me, and that's supposed to be enough." "You've lied to me before, why wouldn't lie to me now?" "Because now it matters!" "Which is exactly why you would lie to me." He sighed. "You know I cared about her. She was my assistant for such a long time." "And you've been his brother for longer! He never cared about you, never trusted you!" Lestrade interrupted. Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head. He must remain objective. But that didn't make Lestrade stop talking. "Think about it, Sherlock – he had Moriarty locked up, and he let him go. Why would he do that, if not to help him? You know he told Moriarty personal information about you. What motive could he possibly have other than to help him? Think about it, Sherlock! Think! Think!" "Sherlock?" John's voice suddenly asked, and Sherlock opened his eyes. His head hurt, tired of trying to fight away subjective thoughts and emotions. The consulting detective turned around and left, without saying a word. 


	6. Chapter 6

When John Watson entered the living room, his flat mate was there, playing the violin. He was composing again. He hadn't talked for two weeks. All he did was to play the violin, lie on the sofa or sneak outside, probably to use drugs, as his eyes were red and his appetite was gone. The last time John had seen Sherlock so brokenhearted was such a long time ago, but it was because of a woman. This time, it's because of his brother. It seemed that Sherlock actually believed his brother had betrayed him. Mrs. Hudson hurried upstairs, carrying a tray full of food. There were two plates on the tray – one for Sherlock and one for John. John kept eating parts of Sherlock's food, in order to make her believe everything's alright. Only it wasn't. Sherlock was broken hearted again, and again, John didn't know what to do. So, since he had no other option, he decided to consult the only person who knew Sherlock as well as he did. "Thank you." he said to his landlady quietly with a smile. He sat down to eat. After he finished his own meal, he ate some of Sherlock's, just enough to make it look real. "I'm leaving, Sherlock." His flat mate continued playing, ignoring him. "I'll be back soon." Still no answer. John sighed and left. 


	7. Chapter 7

When John opened the door and entered, he saw a man that was nothing like the man he had remembered. He saw a thinner, more tired, and possibly sick man, in prison uniform that were now slightly too big on him now. He seemed to have lost a lot of weight. "Hello, John. How's the investigation going?" he asked croakily, in a voice that clearly hadn't been used since their last visit. He got up slowly from the bed he was laying on, standing up in front of him. "Mycroft, are you alright?" John asked worriedly. He never cared for him, but now he looked so weak he couldn't ignore it. "Of course I am. How's the investigation going?" even as a powerless man, he insisted on pretending to be immune. "Sherlock…" the doctor started, but his voice trailed off. "He decided to stop investigating, didn't he?" he asked with the faintest of smiles. "May I know why?" "He was convinced that you worked together with Moriarty." Unlike John expected, Mycroft chuckled. "Well, I can't say it's unbelievable." "But it's a lie, right?" Mycroft's gaze moved to something behind John's left shoulder. "I don't know, Sherlock. Is it?" John turned around, surprised to see his flat mate standing right behind him. How did he not hear him enter? "No, it isn't." Mycroft nodded. "Thought so. You have every reason to believe I was working with Moriarty, so why wouldn't you? For God's sake, Sherlock, use your brain!" Mycroft started yelling. John had never seen him this furious. "I did use my brain!" the younger brother yelled back. "And everything led back to you!" "You are dumber than you seem, aren't you?" Sherlock moved quickly to the bars, putting both his hands on them, as if he's some sort of a beast trying to break them. Mycroft's expression changed. "You're using drugs again, aren't you?" Sherlock was shaking with anger. He wished there weren't any bars there, wished he could hit his brother. The brother than betrayed him, that made him lose everything he had, the brother that kept insulting him ever since he was born. God, he could kill him. "Sherlock, think about it – why would he do this? Maybe, if you'll stop being angry, you'll realize he's speaking the truth!" Sherlock turned to John and punched his face. He hit his nose. "Sherlock!" his brother called. But he had already stormed out. 


	8. Chapter 8

"I'm sorry, John." Mycroft Holmes said after a moment of silence. John's nose was bleeding, and Mycroft knew it was his fault. It seemed that John believed he was innocent. The last thing he wanted is for him to change his mind. "Save it." Mycroft had to say something. And it had to persuade John that fighting with his best friend was worth it, because it meant protecting the innocent. "No, I'm not alright." he admitted. John turned to look to him. "I'm sorry?" "When you came here, you asked me if I'm alright. I said I am. I lied." John started walking to the door. He was too cranky to listen to Mycroft complain. "They're starving me, John!" he called. John froze. "They let me eat one slice of bread a day, and provide me with one glass of water. All I have to do is to read the same five books – over and over again. I already know them by heart. I need your help. And if you can't get me out, kill me. I've already considered killing myself, but there's nothing I can use in order to do so." The doctor turned back to look at his best friend's older brother. He looked ill and desperate. For the first time, he didn't even try to look strong or immune. He was too tired to do so. Lestrade wasn't kidding when he mentioned Mycroft is being tortured. "They're planning to torture you for a little longer, and then to tell you that it'll all be over if you'll admit everything." "I know." "If you'll admit it, you will lose Sherlock. Forever." "I know." he said heavily. "I'll try to get you some food." The doctor promised, and then left before he'll regret what he'd just said. 


	9. Chapter 9

When John Watson arrived home, Sherlock was laying on the sofa, with his eyes closed and his hand in his thinking position.

John went to take a shower. He needed to wash everything off him. He carefully washed his nose, cleaning it from the dry blood.

Sherlock was still there when he came back.

John sat down on the couch and started reading the newspaper. He knew he can the message Moriarty had carved in an apple, the message that had haunted Sherlock until the moment he faked his death.

Sherlock lied back on the sofa, and his eyes shut again.

"Sherlock, they're torturing him!"

"I hope they make him suffer." he whispered back.

"Why are you so mad at him? He's not the first person to betray you. Why him?"

"Other people are idiots. You can't expect them to be loyal or clever, because they're not capable of that. Mycroft is like me, he's different. He has no excuse for betraying me. He fully understood the consequences working with Moriarty will have, and yet still decided to help him. I bet he told Moriarty I faked my death."

"But what if he's innocent?"

John waited for an answer that didn't come.


	10. Chapter 10

Mycroft Holmes opened his eyes to the sounds of a door being closed. For a second, he hoped to hear the familiar sound of his brother's steps, or his familiar tone talking arrogantly. But his hope faded after that second, as he heard John Watson's small and quick steps.

"Hello, John."

"I've brought you some food. It's not much, but that's all I could get."

Mycroft got up from his bed eagerly. He was so hungry all the time, and the news about food were the best thing he had heard in such a long time.

John Watson pulled out a rolled up newspaper. He passed it to Mycroft through the space between the bars, and he snatched it from his hand, like an animal in the zoo being fed by visitors. The image popped in his head, but he dismissed it quickly. At this level of hunger, he couldn't care less about the way he looks. He unrolled the newspaper, and found a couple of small sandwiches, clearly prepared by Mrs. Hudson, judging by the clean cut of the bread. He immediately grabbed one and took a bite. It felt like the tastiest thing he had ever eaten. He took another bite.

John felt uncomfortable. Seeing him like that, so desperate for food, made him feel uncomfortable.

After a few more bites, Mycroft forced himself to stop. Too much food at once won't help, and besides but I bet that you could help him, if the situation was different. Sherlock needs you, Mycroft. More than you know. More than Sherlock knows, in fact."

Mycroft remained quiet, and John shook his head and started walking to the door.

"I won't admit."

The doctor turned to face him.

"You said that admitting the lie they managed to make Sherlock believe in will probably get me out of this cell. But you also said that it would make me lose Sherlock. So like I said, I won't admit."

John smiled faintly. It seemed that Mycroft Holmes was more human than he thought.

"You might die here if you won't admit."

"If death will come, I'll welcome it with open arms. I've already lost everyone else's respect t want to lose my self-respect as well."

John walked to the door again, and left the weak man behind him, that now seemed stronger than anyone he had ever met.


	11. Chapter 11

Two days later, John Watson returned to Mycroft's private cell. He brought food hidden in a newspaper, like last time. This time, Mycroft's wasn't as desperate to eat as he was last time. He seemed calmer and slightly healthier. "You brought a pen." Mycroft said, and pulled a pen out of the rolled up newspaper. John must've forgotten it there somehow. The prisoner put the food on the coffee table, and then tore one of the newspaper's pages. He started writing on it eagerly. "What are you doing?" the doctor asked, confused. "Trying to figure out who framed me. I'm writing down everyone I know, and then I'll eliminate the names until I'll have one name left." "How will you eliminate them?" John thought his method was a great idea, but he couldn't completely understand it. "The blackmailer has to be someone who knows Sherlock and me personally. He must have some sort of access to my office. He must have a reason to want me isolated or dead, or a reason to want to sabotage my already-broken relationship with my brother." Mycroft continued talking, but his voice became lower and lower, until John couldn't hear it anymore. And just like Sherlock, he seemed so focused at what he's doing, so unaware of his surrounding, that John didn't feel uncomfortable when he left him there alone, with his list of names. 


	12. Chapter 12

The next time Mycroft Holmes had a visitor was three days later. It was John of course, as there was no one else who would care enough in order to visit him. "Good morning, Mycroft." He received no answer. The man just sat there, on his bed, staring at him in silence. "Is everything alright?" John looked at the torn page that lied on the table at the exact same spot as it did three days ago. It was filled with names, all erased. All but one, that was circled. The name was John Watson. "You don't actually think I –" he started, startled. "I bet Sherlock has a key to my office. All you had to do it so steal it. You're capable of shooting people, we both know that. You know what lies would sound the most believable to Sherlock. You said so yourself – my relationship with Sherlock is stronger than your relationship with him. You want me out of the way so you'll be Sherlock's only friend and support." "Mycroft, I'm the only person who believes you!" "Because you know that I didn't kill her. You did." John groaned. "What is it with the two of you?! Every time you are provided with a convincing lie, you choose to believe it rather than think a bit further and discover the truth!" "Prove it then. Prove it wasn't you." "How the hell am I supposed to prove that?" "Get Sherlock to come here." John sighed. "He doesn't want to see you. How am I supposed to make him come?" Mycroft nodded. "Thought so." "I can't force Sherlock to come here – that doesn't mean I'm the reason you're here!" The prisoner lied back on his bed and closed his eyes. This conversation is over. He was convinced John was the one that framed him, but unlike his brother, he knew that it is possible that the circumstances prevent him from thinking rationally. So he left it for John to decide – if he'll come back with Sherlock, he'll get a chance to talk to his brother. And if he won't, he probably won't come back again. Mycroft Holmes preferred to starve rather than to be humiliated. But as he heard John Watson leave, he secretly hoped he'll come back again, even if he's the blackmailer. Talking to him was the only thing that kept him sane, even if it was just a couple of sentences once in a while. He started to realize why Sherlock likes him so much. 


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock Holmes hasn't spoken to his flat mate ever since their last discussion about his brother. He could bear with silence, but it was boredom that made him start a conversation. "I'm sorry about the way I talked to you the other day. I didn't mean it." "Of course you did." "Yes, I did. But I'm still sorry." His flat mate didn't answer. Instead, he continued reading the newspaper. "Is there any case we can work on? We haven't had a case for such a long time." "Yes, there is one." "Really?" Sherlock asked, partly excited. He really needed a case, and it was also a great way to get John to talk to him. "Yes. The client's name is Mycroft Holmes." his flat mate said angrily and shut the newspaper. Sherlock sighed. "Can we talk about something that's not related to my brother?" "You're related to your brother, Sherlock! Every time I look at you I think of the ill man that's isolated from the world because his brother believes he had betrayed him!" "Why do you care so much about him?" Sherlock was becoming upset. John was his friend, not Mycroft's. "I care about you, Sherlock, don't you see? Ever since this whole thing started you don't eat, you barely talk – for God's sake, you're using drugs again!" the doctor took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. "Look, you'll feel much better if you'll just visit him." "Why would I do that?" John Watson got up from his seat and walked to the door. "Wait." his flat mate called. He didn't turn. The detective sighed. "Give me a week. A week, and then I'll visit him." John didn't ask why he needed a week. He didn't ask what made Sherlock change his mind. He just walked out of the flat. 


	14. Chapter 14

During the next week, John Watson observed his flat mate. He couldn't see any drastic change in him, but his eyes became less red and less tired, and he started eating again. It seemed that he had stopped using drugs.

After the week had passed, the detective and the doctor sat next to each other in a cab, on their way to the prison where Mycroft Holmes is being imprisoned. The two of them were silent, so Sherlock began deducing the cabbie. As expected, he discovered nothing interesting.

"Why did you bring a sandwich?" Sherlock asked.

"It's for Mycroft."

Sherlock chuckled. Even when imprisoned, his brother was hungry.

John decided not to tell him the reason his brother was so hungry. Soon enough he'll understand.

After ten minutes that felt like forever, the two of them opened the door and walked to Mycroft's cell. They found him lying on his bed, with his eyes closed.

"Mycroft." Sherlock said, shocked.

The last time he saw his brother, he was thinner than usual, but Sherlock assumed it was because of the innutritious food the prison provides. This time, he knew something is wrong. Mycroft was even thinner, paler than he remembered. He seemed to be covered in sweat, as if he's in the middle of a nightmare.

The prisoner opened his eyes and got up to a sitting position, and a faint smile spread on his face.

"Sherlock. You came."

"What's going on? Are you alright?"

Mycroft's smile grew slightly bigger. Even thought he'll never admit it, he had missed his brother.

"Thank you, John."

"Told you so." he said and nodded.

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock asked, now slightly irritated.

"They're starving him, Sherlock. They're trying to get him to admit he worked with Moriarty."

"Then why don't you admit?" he asked, startled. He could have survived with little food – but his brother wasn't like him.

"Because it's a lie. Besides, it helps my diet, don't you think?"

"Was that a joke?"

"Clearly not a good one."

Sherlock was bewildered. Hours ago, he was certain that his brother was guilty, that he wanted to apologize. But now, he believed John – Mycroft seemed innocent. No one would choose to be imprisoned rather than to admit the truth, or even a lie.

Sherlock could cope with being wrong. What disturb him more was that Mycroft tried to make him laugh. Ever since they were children, Mycroft had tried to make him laugh only when he had bad news, or when he was sick.

"What is it?" he asked coldly, trying to conceal his nervousness.

Mycroft sighed. Of course he understood.

"I'm sick, Sherlock. I've been sick for days, and he won't help me unless I admit. I just thought it's time to say goodbye. Mother would be upset to find out I died without saying goodbye."

"Mycroft, you're not going to die. We'll get you help. We'll prove you're innocent, and you'll be free." his younger brother, not concealing his feelings anymore. He could feel the tears in his eyes. It made him feel so childish and helpless, but as hard as he tried, he couldn't control it.

"There's no point, don't you see? He's one step ahead of us. He is always one step ahead of us."

"Who is?" the doctor asked.

"Always cleverer, always more cunning. I should have seen it coming a long time ago."

"Who is, Mycroft?"

He made eyes contact with John.

"Moriarty."

John was confused. What was he talking about?

Unlike his flat mate, Sherlock got his brother's intentions.

"That's impossible. He's dead. I saw him kill himself."

"And your friend here watched you fall to your death. He touched your dead body. You tell me – are you dead?"

"You don't mean to say that…" John started, finally understanding.

"Moriarty is alive, and he's responsible for everything that's happening." Sherlock said, and allowed a single tear slide down his cheek. It all makes sense. Only Moriarty knew what would make him not trust his brother. Only Moriarty could threaten Lestrade in a way that'll make him torture his brother. Only Moriarty could make such a detailed plan, and stay above it.

And if it really is him, then there's nothing they could do. They had no idea where he was, what's the next stage in his plan, or how they can stop him.

"Don't be sad, brother. He has won the match, but not the tournament. You've still got time to win the next one."

John looked at Sherlock. He was genuinely crying, in a way John had never seen before. He suddenly looked like a little boy, that's desperate to be with his older brother.

"I'm sorry I didn't believe you."

"Don't be. It was very believable. I can't blame you for falling for it."

Mycroft got up from his bed and walked to John.

"Did you bring a gun, John?"

"Why would I bring a gun?"

"It's in his coat."

John rolled his eyes. Was he really that transparent?

He pulled it out of his coat.

"I need one last favour, Dr. Watson."

"Go ahead."

"I need you to shoot me."

The flat mates' expressions changed immediately.

"_Excuse me_?"

"I'm tired, John. And more importantly, I'm bored. You've killed people before. You can do it again."

"Mycroft, this isn't the solution."

John cocked the gun.

"John, _don't_!" Sherlock begged.

The doctor wasn't sure why he's following Mycroft's orders. He knew Sherlock would never forgive him. But at that moment, he wanted to help that man. He remembered the day when The Woman said Moriarty calls him 'The Iceman'. He used to think that nickname suits him, but when he looked at him now, he was just a regular man, who cares about his brother.

He aimed the gun at the man.

"John, I'm begging you. Put down the gun."

"I'm sorry, Sherlock."

Mycroft half smiled. He liked this man.

"Take care of him, John. No matter what he says, he can't live without you."

"I will. I promise." he answered, and his voice broke.

"John, _please_." Sherlock asked again, even though he knew it was worthless.

A shot was fired.

Mycroft Holmes fell down on the floor, dead.


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock Holmes tried to pick a suit. He had several black suits for some reason, and he had to pick one. He gave up and put on his coat and blue scarf. In his life, Mycroft made fun of people dressing up nice for funerals, so it felt pointless to do the same thing for his. His flat mate and his landlady waited for him in the living room, dressed in black. Both of them thought he should have worn a suit, but neither said a word. Four more people waited for them in the graveyard, next to Mycroft's tombstone – Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper and Sherlock's parents. Most of the people there didn't come for Mycroft – they didn't really know him. They came for Sherlock. Sherlock's mother hugged him as they came, and cried on his shoulder, saying she was sorry and that they'll all miss him. He didn't say anything back. Molly half smiled to him comfortingly. Lestrade mumbled an apology filled with shame and guilt. He knew that he had a part in his death. They all stood in front of the tombstone. John cleared his throat. "Does anyone want to say anything?" Sherlock's father talked about what a wonderful man Mycroft was, about his wisdom, and said they would miss him deeply. Molly and Mrs. Hudson started crying. "I…" Sherlock started, but his voice trailed off. What could he say? But then, it occurred to him. He knew exactly what he should say. "If Mycroft could see us now, he would have laughed at us. 'What are you crying about?', he'd say. 'People die. You should care about it'. He told me once caring is not an advantage. Today, I know why. "Mycroft and I were never close, you may say. We teased each other, we annoyed each other and we kept secrets from each other. He didn't like me very much, but you can't blame him – I've been a terrible little brother. I'll never get a chance to fix it. But I don't regret it. Mycroft hated sentiment. Our relationship was the closest thing to friendship he ever had. So if he really was here with us, I'd tell him to shut up and stop making fun of us, because that's what our relationship was like. And I'll never have that with anyone else." The women were all sobbing now, and even John shed a tear. Not that he'll ever admit it. Sherlock looked at John, expecting him to say something as well. "Well, I never really knew Mycroft. We never exchanged more than six sentences in a row. You didn't need to talk to him in order to see what kind of a man he was – organized, immune, always in control. Until one day he wasn't, and that's when his real identity was revealed to me. He was a good brother, no matter what horror storied Sherlock had told you before." his voice broke, so he decided it's time to stop talking before he breaks down. "I can't say I'll miss him, but I'll miss the way he affected Sherlock. He made him who he is today. And I'll forever thank him for that." 


	16. Chapter 16

Greg Lestrade had to run in order to get to Sherlock, who was hurrying to leave the graveyard before anyone else will apologize to him, like they were the ones to kill him. He wasn't made at John anymore. He knew it was the right thing to do. He just wished there was a different solution to that situation. "Sherlock, wait." he called. The detective stopped and turned to him. The doctor stopped as well. "We found this on his body." he said, and pulled a note out of his coat. "It's addressed to you." Sherlock took the note from his hands. His name was written on it, in Mycroft's organized handwriting. Without saying another word, he opened it. Dear Sherlock, If you're reading this note, it means I'm already dead. I've written this a long time ago, when I realized Moriarty's behind it all. Don't be mad at Lestrade, nor at John. You have friends, and you must not give up on them. Having friends was always the thing that made you different than me. I never apologize, you know that. But as I'll never get apologize again, I assume this would be the suitable time to do so. I'm sorry. I'm sorry you have to go through all of this. Just because I despise sentiment, doesn't mean I'm heartless. It hurts me to write this note, but it's necessary. If anything happened the way I've planned it, the last thing I did was to ask John to take care of you. Please inform him that even as a dead man I can make him pay if he doesn't. I wish I could tell you I love you, that you're my beloved brother, that I'll miss you, but you know that's not like me. That's also not like you. But I will miss you. Mycroft Holmes Sherlock refolded the note and put it in his coat. "Thank you." he mumbled and hurried away, before anyone will notice he's crying. Crying like a little boy who missed his brother. Only that's exactly what he was. 


End file.
